


have faith that you are real

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, Identity Issues, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like putting a mirror or a puzzle back together.  Those things are utterly simple compared to the act of fitting together the pieces of the person you were with the person you're becoming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to August who is a wonderful beta and who makes my awkward and silly words into something readable.
> 
> I completely acknowledge that this is utterly self indulgent and may only appeal to a few people, as there are tons of fics out there with this general premise but genderqueer!Bucky has been on my mind for months and while second person isn't everyone's cup of tea, it felt right for this one.

The memory of the memory of being alive burns itself into your brain. You don’t know the men in the museum, but you dream of them; two boys who ran off to war. The dreams are vague; you don’t have the details but you know the gist, you know that one grows up and one falls down.

You don’t apply the word ‘alive’ to what you are now. It’s more like ‘functioning’ or ‘operating correctly’; those are the words you would choose if asked. Not that anyone talks to you now, save for the occasional troublemaker or concerned citizen. 

You look down and out, like you’ve been living rough for ages, which isn’t exactly a lie. You’re thin, you’re tired, and you don’t know what you’re doing anymore, not that you ever had. Order has been replaced with the chaos of the real world. You end up lost and wandering, praying for someone to find you not because you want it, but because being found means that someone, somewhere, can tell you what needs to be done again.

When you get your wish, and many times afterward, you’ll remember all the times you thought about being found, and you’ll feel sick at the idea for settling for ‘anyone’ when it should only ever have been one person.

He’s silent when he sits down next to you; he looks relieved that you’re not running. You’re tempted to, but you don’t, not this time. You’re too lost to be chased down. It’s time to let yourself be found for a while.

When he finally does say something, it’s the name, the ghost that has haunted you since this whole thing started. He offers a hand; you look at him, at it. You sigh like a man who has far too much weight to carry, even though you aren’t even sure what it is.

He guides you back to the place where he’s staying and you wonder how long you will stay with him. It doesn’t feel like a forever, or even like a few days. But you weren’t made to think about the future, so you don’t bother trying.

~

You fall into the bed he offers you, unconsciousness wrapping around you as soon as your head hits the pillow, pulling you into the dark. You never slept well and you don’t expect to now, but you need the rest more than you realize. Having a somewhat safe place to close your eyes is enough to put you out for an hour or so.

When you wake, he’s standing there, his body framed by the doorway. Neither of you say a word, but he sees you’re awake and he comes closer. Only a few feet, but it’s enough to make you sit up. You feel like something is going to happen and you don’t know what. 

All of this is unfamiliar terrain for you and you have no idea how to navigate it.

You can tell that he sees the tension in your body when he backs away, his hands held out in front of him. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry, I….”

That’s when you know he is as clueless as you are in this situation. Neither of you have a light in this new darkness, and that realization makes you let out a sharp little laugh.

He looks at you, confusion written on his face and you don’t know what to say to that. Instead, you motion for him to come closer because, well, what’s there to lose at this point? If he wants to do something, he will; if he doesn’t, he won’t. It’s not the best risk assessment you’ve ever done but it’s hard to bring yourself to care anymore. You thought when you found him, things wouldn’t feel this way, this strange sort of apathy mixed with confusion and wanting; but it’s still there, sitting in the pit of your stomach, making you feel uncertain while still lacking the ability to entirely give a damn about the whole mess.

You watch as he takes a step closer again, clearly ready to back off if you give any sign of not wanting him there. You close your eyes for a moment to show him that it doesn’t matter. He can do what he wants; you’re not the one giving orders here. You never have been.

He settles on the edge of the bed, the tension seeping out of him a little as he studies you. His eyes are intense, even in the darkness; you wonder what it’s like to see him look angry. You imagine those eyes hard with it, his gaze strong and unyielding. You wonder if he’s looked at you that way before; you try and remember, but you know it’s in vain. Just because you’re here now doesn’t mean everything gets fixed. It’s starting to look like things are going to be more broken before things start to look up. You have to learn how to live with him, and him with you. 

And that’s assuming you even stay. You’re still not sure, but you have nowhere else to go, and he wants you here.

That thought is enough to override the apathy for a moment. He wants you here, and you don’t know how to respond to that.

You lean forward, eyes on him. He reaches out in response, brushing a hand against your knee. You flinch, backing up and pulling yourself away. He looks so disappointed then that you almost feel bad, but you’re not ready for that -- for touching and closeness and looks that say ‘if you only knew...’. You already have to deal with those looks, but you can’t handle other things added on top of it.

The silence grows thick between you, almost tangible in your mouth. You think you might choke on it before he starts to speak.

“I-” He falters, and you watch on, waiting for him to come out with something, anything at all. He has to be able to say something, right? He could string together a set of words to break the weight of silence around you.

“Bucky,” he tries again. “I’m sorry.”

The weight of silence feels like nothing compared to the weight of his apology. He didn’t do anything but open your eyes, show you that there was something to be learned. You never yearned for knowledge before him; maybe that’s enough to be sorry about, but it still makes your stomach turn.

You stare at him, tongue heavy in your mouth, language too thick to come out smoothly on your lips. You were never one for talking much before this; sometimes you’re not sure if your voice is even there. 

But you force out the words, one at a time. They come from you slowly, these awkward, uncertain sounds.

“Don’t be.” It sounds like a plea, like an assurance, and like you’re too tired to say anything else.

He laughs, quiet and bitter, and it tells you enough. He won’t stop; he’ll never stop. You know that the ghost of the man that he sees in you is haunting him, even as you sit before him. You’re not who he wants. You’re not Bucky, you’re not anyone. You’re a fiction made flesh, the composite of what people needed and nothing more.

But maybe one day you’ll be the composite of what he needs. You wonder if you could do that, if you stay; if you’ll learn enough about the man he knew to follow in his footsteps. You wonder if he could be happy with that; if he’s desperate enough to take table scraps compared to the full meal. You wonder and you wonder and while you watch him in the dark, you think you know the answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Days pass and nothing gets better. You’re still uncertain in everything, even your own skin, and he still looks at you with longing for a man who died long ago.

You sit by a window, watching the world pass by and holding a cup of coffee close. You like the warmth in your flesh hand. He’s in the kitchen, cooking eggs and trying to pretend that you two do this every morning, like there’s some sort of domestic bliss to be had in the oddness. You both know it’s a lie; all of this is one strange delusion, and you don’t know how to tell him you don’t want delusions. You want.

Well, you don’t know what you want, but you’re sure it _should_ be the truth.

He sets the plate of eggs down in front of you and you eye it warily. He feeds you three times a day, simple food that you hardly taste. You like food. It’s a new experience; before, all your nutrition was taken care of intravenously. But even though you enjoy it, the taste and texture hardly do anything to cut through your mind and its unease.

“Thank you,” you say, not meeting his eyes. Looking into the eyes of others is uncomfortable. There’s so much expectation to be had from some people; blankness from others. You don’t want to see any of it. You want to be passed over, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He smiles at you, a blinding expression. He gets so excited when you engage with him rather than spending time in the room he assigned to you.

(You don’t think of it as yours. Nothing is yours. You don’t get the luxury of claiming things.)

“No problem. Enjoy it.”

Even now the conversation is awkward. Words come strange and stilted, and you know both of you are trying to pretend there’s something natural in your interaction when there clearly isn’t. Sometimes you think of leaving in moments like this, grabbing the few things you may need for survival and vanishing into the night; but you can’t. Not yet. There’s still so much to know and a draw that you can’t resist keeping you here. Sometimes it frustrates you; other times, you’re grateful that there might be something more than blood and metal and death waiting for you in your head.

“We should go out,” he says, after a minute of you sitting there, staring at your eggs. “Not now, but... after breakfast. We should try and get out for a while.”

The idea of venturing into the world makes you feel sick, but he’s watching with hopeful eyes and you know he wants you to agree. And even though you know he would never think of you as his property, for now, that’s exactly what you are. You belong to him until you find something else to belong to.

So you nod, taking a small bite to occupy your mouth. Words are still foreign on your tongue; you hardly use them, but simple questions that you can nod or shake your head to always get a response.

“Great.” He sits down across from you, his own plate in front of him. You eat quietly after that, not bothering to make chit chat and try to pretend. It’s a refreshing bit of honesty. You know that things aren’t smooth, but they aren’t rough right now, either. Just existing, with no other expectations waiting for you beyond eating, is comforting in a way you don’t think you’ll ever be able to put into words.

It lasts until you both finish and he stands, collecting both your plates and topping off your coffee. He stops at the kitchen door, watching you.

“You know,” he says. “You don’t have to go out if you don’t want to.”

You feel your shoulders go up as you tense, body curling around your coffee cup like it needs protecting somehow. You consider trying to tell him that your stomach does flips when you think of leaving this little apartment, but you can’t get the words to come out. You’re not allowed to want, to have things like opinions.

If he wants you to go out with him, then that’s what you do. If he doesn’t, then you stay and wait. That’s how it works, at least for now.

You can tell by his expression he’s analyzing you, studying your posture and your face. You hate being transparent, but it’s hard to hide things; you never had to before. You don’t know the art of lying, and the truth erupts from you like blood from a wound.

“We’ll stay,” he tells you after a moment. “Maybe watch a movie or something. We’ll go out another time.”

You didn’t notice you're heart was racing until you let out a slow breath and nod. You can deal with that. It’s not perfect, there’s still going to be the thick taste of unfamiliarity in the air, but you don’t care. It’s going to be trapped in the four walls of the apartment, and that’s far better than venturing into the world and letting it radiate off of you.

After that, things are quiet. Soon enough, you find yourself laying in bed and alone, eyes closed and breathing calm. It’s not restful, not exactly, but it’s close enough and you’ll take it for now. 

You fall asleep eventually, only to wake to the sounds of something at your door. You don’t have to open your eyes to know it’s him.

A pattern has started, one you are slowly coming to understand. He watches you in your sleep, making sure you’re still there, and you get to watch him in return when he does enough to stir you into consciousness. You don’t know if it’s a good pattern or not but it’s definitely there. It’s late when he wakes you this time, the moon high in the sky when you glance out the window. You realize you lost several hours in the process of settling down.

You simply stare at each other for a long time after, neither of you making a move until he starts to leave. You swallow, not sure if you should stop him. You want to, but the words catch between your teeth and you’re left making an awkward, strangled noise instead.

He turns to look at you again, head tilted, eyes hopeful.

You feel sick at the sight. You avert your eyes because looking at anything that isn’t him is easier. Maybe one day it won’t be. Maybe one day you’ll look him in eye with confidence, and you’ll know who you are, who he is, and who you are to each other. But that day is not today.

Today is left to the silence and uncertainty and the ghosts that haunt the two of you.

Eventually he turns away again, this time slower, and heads toward his own room. You don’t stop him.

Maybe one day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this written for a while but I did not get the chance to post it until now because my beta had been rather busy and this thing needs to be beta-ed for reasons. But yeah, have an update. I have the fourth section done as well, so hopefully it won't be quite so long before I get that up.

You wake up feeling like you haven’t slept at all. You know that you technically rested but you don’t feel refreshed or rejuvenated. Your body is still tense, aching from the tightness of your muscles and when you stretch, you’re hit by the sound of bones popping.

It takes another moment to realize why you feel this way, the difference between this night and the last.

He never came.

You’d fallen into a pattern, seeing him in the night, exchanging awkward motions and mumbled words with one another. He’d check on you and you’d try to act like it didn't matter if he was there or not. But it does, it matters enough that you find yourself sleeping poorly without him there.

You pad out into the living room, listening for him. He’s not trying to be quiet; you can hear him moving around in the kitchen, humming a tune you think you might have heard once. You step into the kitchen almost silently, leaning against the counter, hands in the pockets of the sweatpants you wear to bed. He gave them to you on your first night there; they’re comfortable and soft, and the fabric is nice between your fingers. You can spend hours touching it. But you can do that with a few different textures; you've found that you can get lost in the sensations if you allow yourself to.

He turns around, not surprised in the least to see you. “Hey. I was going to wake you up.”

You don’t say anything, as usual, only offer a small nod and peer over his shoulder at what he’s making. Eggs. That’s not unusual, or unwelcome; it’s one of the things you've found you enjoy, and testing them with different things is an interesting experiment in trial and error.

“There’s coffee too,” he says with a smile and you let a small grin slip onto your face in response. The sight makes his expression brighten and you relax a little more, the tension that still clung to your body from the night before slowly ebbing away now that you can see that he doesn't seem mad at you.

You pour yourself coffee and fix it the way you want this time. You’re experimenting with coffee too, seeing how you like it; today you try two sugars, no milk or cream.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks casually, like he shouldn't have known. He _should_ though, he should have been there last night, and you wonder if maybe he _is_ mad at you, if somehow you've annoyed him and he’s simply pretending he’s not.

You swallow hard, staring into the coffee. You want to lie, but you weren't built for lying. Aversion, sometimes, but never lying. “No.”

He looks at you uncertainly, obviously having expected a different answer, and it makes you breath a little more easily to know that. Sure, he still might be mad, but it’s not malicious. He didn't expect you to be upset over it.

“What happened?”

You shrug, not sure you even have the words to describe it; at least not ones that don’t sound utterly ridiculous, even to you. You take a gulp of your coffee instead of answering him, ignoring the burn as it goes down your throat.

“Bucky.”

You look at him, keeping your expression blank. “It doesn't matter. I just didn't sleep well.”

He frowns, and you feel yourself growing more uncomfortable with each passing moment. You’re letting him down even now.

“You didn't come last night,” you say in a rush of sound, and it’s just as ridiculous when you say it out loud as when you kept it in your head. “I didn’t…. Never mind, it doesn't matter.”

“It matters to you,” he says. “That means it matters.”

He sits across from you, eyes focused, and you feel uncomfortable under his gaze. You don’t like when people look at you, not even him.

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d sleep better without me waking you up in the middle of the night.”

You make a noncommittal noise, taking another sip of your coffee. Coffee is easier than conversation and you don’t know what to say anyway. You can’t tell him that you sleep a little easier knowing he’s awake at night; it doesn't want to come out of your mouth, despite how hard you try.

“Why do you sleep better with me checking in?” he asks, almost gently, like he’s coaxing the answer out of you. His hand extends, palm out, as if he’s expecting you to give him something more than an answer.

It’s an invitation, you realize, and you’re not sure you’re ready to take it. “Just do,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the blackness of your coffee instead. Looking at anything else is almost painful and you can’t stand the idea of it.

“Do you—” He stops, clearly unsure of what he’s trying to say, and it brings you comfort. You’re reminded that he’s just as uncertain as you are and right now, that’s good to know. As long as you’re not the only one stumbling, you think you’ll be okay, at least for now.

“How about you sleep on the couch tonight?” he asks finally. You don’t think it’s what he was trying to say but you’re not sure what that actually was, so you could be wrong.

“Hm?”

“Sleep on the couch,” he repeats; you feel bad for making him do it. “I’ll sleep with my door open. We’ll be in each other’s line of sight then.”

You consider that option and you realize you like the sound of it. Having him close is nice; being able to simply open your eyes and see him there, whether he’s sleeping or not, is a comforting notion.

“I can do that,” you agree, a slight smile sneaking onto your face. “Do you talk in your sleep?” It’s meant as a joke, even if it’s an awkward one. You’re still getting the hang of that sort of thing.

“No,” he says. “You do, but I don’t mind.”

That makes you tense, your hand wrapping tight around your coffee mug. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” he offers quickly, realizing he’d upset you half a second after it came from his mouth. “I didn’t…. It’s fine, I don’t care and you don’t say much, just mumble.”

“Oh.” But you’re not comforted, and you find yourself rethinking the whole situation.

“Sorry,” he says again, and the hand that had been outstretched curls into a light fist. “I don’t listen, I promise. I just heard you making noise a few times.”

You nod, not sure what to say now. You shift in your seat, clenching and un-clenching your fist around the mug. Silence grows between you, hanging heavy in the air and you don’t know what to do now. You hide in caffeine, drinking the last of your coffee in one gulp and getting up to get more. He follows you, acquiring a cup of his own; you pour it for him.

When both of you have settled at the table again, you try to force the words out, words that stick in your throat for a few seconds before you pry them out.

“I don’t… You don’t need to know about them.” You swallow down a gulp of coffee. “The dreams. You don’t need them. I don’t want you knowing.”

He watches you carefully, then gets to his feet and moves to your side. You’re in the corner, but he finds the space between you and the wall and worms his way in.

“Listen to me.” His tone is so gentle, that coaxing chime to it that you’re slowly becoming familiar with. “I don’t mind knowing. I promise, I really don’t. But if you don’t want me to know, I don’t have to know. Not now. Maybe one day you can tell me, but you don’t have to.”

You nod slowly, like if you did it any faster your head would roll right off your shoulders. You’ll need time to process this, all of this, but you trust him, you have to trust him, and you think you can believe what he says.

“Thank you.” Your head turns and you look up at him, his bright eyes meeting yours for the first time in days. “Thank you, Steve.”

He smiles, a sight you find surprisingly reassuring, and you’re almost proud to have drawn it out of him.

“No problem.” He rests a hand against your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Your instant reaction is to pull away but you resist, after an initial twitch which he doesn't seem to mind too much.

You yawn then, the exchange having left you drained.

“Mind if I sleep?” you ask after a moment contemplating more coffee instead, even though you know it will do little good to help you.

“Go for it,” he says. “I’ll probably be awake when you get up.”

You get to your feet and drag yourself to the couch. There’s a pillow there already and you let yourself fall into the cushions, pulling the blanket that sits over the back of it around your body. The one in your bedroom is heavier; you wish you had it but you don’t want to move.

You fall asleep quickly after that thought, your body giving in to the desire after a poor night and a stressful conversation. Even though you hear him — Steve — moving around the kitchen and the soft sound of music coming from the stereo in his bedroom, you sleep more deeply than you ever expected.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sensory distance and processing stuff. 
> 
> Sorry again for this taking as long as I have and if have with getting this stuff up. I'm writing, just slowly, although considering this is NaNoWriMo and I'm working on this as a part of it, there is more being written more quickly than usual. So yes, I might be faster with the next update.

You sleep on the couch now. It’s comfortable and he — Steve — got you a blanket that was soft and soothing to the touch. You like it and often find yourself curling up under it when you can't bring yourself to process the world around you.

In those times, he’ll watch you, eyes dark with concern and maybe even fear. You find that you can’t help it though, that sometimes you have to burrow under blankets and shut out everything for a while, just let your mind float away and be nowhere. It makes coming back hard but when you do, you can usually go a week or so without being anywhere else.

Usually.

Sometimes you’re drifting every day Sometimes you can’t focus on anything and your hands shake. Sometimes you wonder why you’re even here because it doesn't feel like it and maybe you should just go lock yourself away in the bedroom for a while, even though you prefer the couch. At least if you're in there, you wouldn't be in his -— Steve’s, you keep forcing yourself to use his name — line of sight.

But you never do, instead forcing yourself to keep pushing along and hoping you’ll survive for a while longer without slipping too far into your own head.

In the end, that’s what it’s about, surviving. Steve says it’s about _living_ but you think that’s a luxury you don’t have. Maybe one day, maybe you’ll get to the point where survival won’t be enough but you doubt that’s going to be any time soon.

Fingers twitch as you pull the blanket over your head, an obvious sign that says your body wants to give out and just lose itself for a while. You can’t fight it and when you close your eyes, you feel it fall. 

You hate that feeling. 

~

Hours later, you blink into awareness, unsure if you slept or just got lost in your own head. Steve is sitting on the floor, flipping through channels and you wonder how long he’s been there.

You mumble something and turn onto your side, blinking again. You meant to say something more than noise but the words aren't coming easily today and you don’t feel like forcing them at this point.

“Hey,” he greets softly, one hand reaching out to brush strands of hair from your face. You tense and he pulls back immediately. You don’t like hands coming towards you like that, even from him. Hands make you nervous all around and even though you try to hide it, sometimes, especially when you’re only half aware of what you’re doing, it gets hard to mask that discomfort.

Steve watches you his eyes warm even as they study your movements. He’s not doing it out of anything more than concern and that’s still strange to fathom. You’re not used to the idea that someone cares about your feelings, your opinions and thoughts on things.

It throws you off a little.

Pushing yourself upright, you brush your hair out of the way, watching him in return, then you reach out, put a hand on his shoulder and give a light squeeze. It’s a silent greeting but you’re pretty certain he’ll understand. He’s fairly decent at picking up your cues and while you've never told him flat out that you were grateful for that, it has crossed your mind more than once.

He smiles, soft but bright. “Hungry? I can whip up something. Eggs? Or mac and cheese.” 

You shake your head, letting yourself flop onto the couch again. A slow breath in and out and you’re feeling the room spin a little. Nothing is quite right, nothing settled in the way it was supposed to but you don’t have the ability to articulate that yet.

You make a low, soft noise and put your palms against your closed eyelids. You can still feel him watching and you wonder if he's going to do anything, if he has a magic fix that he’s just not telling you about. 

You know he doesn't.

“I'm all right,” you say before he can even ask the question. “Just tired.”

Your words are slurred and you can hear the dizziness in your voice but you hope he doesn't.

He does. Of course he does and you feel his hand against your arm. “What do you need,” he asks softly and you want to tell him to not ask, to say that you don’t need anything and you’re fine, but you only wind up making another soft noise instead.

You vaguely wonder if this is a low level panic attack, striking for some unknown reason. Your head isn't racing but you feel like you’re shaking a little and spinning like mad. 

“I’m good,” you try again, this time forcing the words to sound more clear than you actually feel. “Really, I’m fine.”

You push yourself upright and feel yourself wobble but can’t entirely stop it from happening. “Sorry,” you mutter before you expect to hit the pillow once again.

But strong hands are holding you upright and you blink, unsure of what to do with that realization. 

“Hi.” It’s all you can think to say and you realize how out of sorts that sounds and want to kick yourself for it.

“Hi,” Steve says back, tone distressed and eyes reflecting the same thing. “You still with me?

“Mmhm.”

He sits on the couch next to you, pulling you to his chest. “You’re okay,” he assures, his tone quiet enough that only you could hear. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You want to struggle, to show him that you don’t need this but you know you do. You know you find comfort when you’re this close to him. Your body relaxes into the touch and your breathing slows down. You don’t feel trapped with his arms around you, rather you feel like you’re being grounded when everything is up in the air.

It’s nice and even more than that, it’s safe.

He keeps muttering soft reassurances into your hair as his hands moving against you, attempting to pull you into your body. They’re promises of safety, of comfort and security. You can almost believe them in times like this, when the world is falling away and it’s just the two of you. It’s not easy but if you close your eyes and pretend there’s nothing else, it’s possible.


	5. Chapter 5

The days that follow are a study in focus. Sometimes you’re completely aware of what’s going on around you. Other times, you’re lost to the world, buried in your own thoughts and nightmares.

It’s troubling but you can’t do much about it. You find it too hard to focus on just one thing and when you do, your brain short circuits and you stumble away feeling like you've been shocked.

Steve watches you with concern, face never faltering in it’s troubled expression. He touches you gently, holds you when you seem to be going too far too often and tries to keep you grounded. It’s not something that works often though and you feel like a horrible person for failing over and over again.

You want to give him what he wants, want to give him the person he longs for and, if not that, give him a person who can stay present through an entire conversation, but neither of those things are within your reach right now.

So instead you let him do what he feels like he needs to, bending do his whims when he touches you or pulls you close. You don’t care one way or the other unless he’s holding you down, which he has yet to do, and if it makes him happy, or at least feel better, you tell yourself you don’t give a damn.

Maybe it should be different. Maybe you should be trying to do more, or be something better, but you simply don’t have the energy to right now. It’s too tiring, too draining, and you wind up being a lump on the couch most days, listening to the sound of traffic and the hum of the air conditioner.

At one point, you can’t say which day or what time, Steve enters, dropping down on the floor near you as he often does. He holds out his iPod and headphones. “Here,” he says, his voice quiet. 

You blink, taking the objects and putting the headphones over your ears, uncertain of what to expect. The music is old and lively and you find yourself grinning a little. It’s the kind of noise that leaves people wanting to dance and while you’re not most people, it does elicit something out of you all the same.

Steve looks relieved and smiles, resting his head against the couch cushion. “Keep it,” he says. “For now. It might…I don’t know. I just thought you might like it.”

You nod, pocketing the iPod and keeping the headphones close.

After that, you find yourself zoning in and out as per usual but when you come to it’s to the sound of music.

~

It’s not like a floodgate was opened, that's too strong a description but more like a tap was turned on. Things start trickling in and you investigate more and more when you’re aware enough to do so.

You start looking at music, at television at books and the Internet.

It’s like your eyes are slowly opening and while the light hurts, it’s not a bad ache. It’s one that you welcome.

Music wraps you up first. It pulls you in and you lose yourself in the beat. All sorts of music capture you, from the old music Steve sometimes listens to, to strange ambient noise that is hardly music at all but a collection of sounds that strikes your interest.

Steve gets you your own iPod at one point and you find yourself going nowhere without it. You have headphones on almost constantly and it’s a comfort to block out the world and fill your head with noise that isn't your own screaming thoughts. You like it and you savor every note.

You don’t look into artists, not for a long time, just nest in the noise they create. You don’t care about the people who make the music as long as they keep letting you have access to it. 

But somehow you find yourself tripping down the rabbit hole of the Internet and discovering people who do more than sing. They are performers, people who transform themselves on stage rather than simply get up there and play music.

You find it strange and enchanting, hypnotic and wonderful. You love the look of them, the alien features, the way they present themselves. It’s engrossing and you realize there’s a whole subset of people who put on masks, who create personae and go about the world being seen as not what the world has made them but what they have crafted themselves.

It’s a wonderful realization.

You start looking more into performance, start looking into visual arts of all kinds and you find yourself getting lost. It’s overwhelming and fascinating and you love it but you can’t describe what exactly is going through your head when you look at these strange and beautiful people.

They rise above such things as gender or a name or anything really. They are more than a man or a woman, more than a mere person. They are creatures that are bringing forth their own creations into the world and putting them on display. 

It takes, you think, a great amount of bravery. Or a great amount of desperation.

You don’t know if you could do it, if you could be those people, but there’s a part of you that wants to. There’s a part of you that longs to grab yourself and remake your image into something new, something stunning and beautiful and different from what you are now.

You don’t know if you have the bravery but you are almost certain you have the desperation.

So you start looking into how to emulate the styles of the people you see. You start prodding at patterns and make up and artistry. You don’t know if you have the right eye for it, the steady hands or the right way of holding yourself but you damn well want to try, even if you fail.

You want to craft something new out of this old body, these old scars. You want to be remade.

You don’t know how to articulate this to anyone else, how to put the words together in a way they even remotely understand. You entertain the idea of talking to Natalia, she might get it, she might understand) but you don’t know and you’re scared to try.

There’s so much fear wrapped around you, terror dictating your every move. You wonder if you’ll ever shed it and be something else, wear a different cloak but you can’t be sure.

You close your eyes and breath, looking at the computer, at the images of people playing at whatever they want to be. Costumes and decorations and make up and all of it. You watch videos and look at images and you want it, god you want it, but you still don’t know how to go about getting it.

Eventually you close the computer moving away from it and setting on the couch. You make yourself comfortable and pull the blanket around you. Steve watches and smiles, looking pleased that you've been present the entire day, or at least most of it.

He settles down next to you and the two of you watch something stupid on TV but you can’t help but study the set design, the costumes and the way the actors hold themselves.

You think to yourself that maybe one day you can do that. Maybe you can achieve that level of manipulation.

Steve watches you and he knows you’re there, that you've not drifted off into your own head but he knows you’re also thinking about something. You’re painfully easy to read sometimes and it makes you sick.

And then, when it matters, (or maybe when it’s worst) you become hard as hell to understand, so maybe you just need to learn ho to better at it, just like everything else.

“What?” You ask, head tilting to the side.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “You seem.. I don’t know.”

You shrug, settling in against him. “Don’t worry about it,” you muter. "It’s nothing."

And you know things are going to go south from there. You know he’s going to start wondering and questioning and worrying, but you try to let it pass for now, falling into an easy comfort and settling into the world around you.

You fall asleep there, the two of you. You zone in and out to the sound of the TV and the hum of traffic outside. No one bothers you, no one comes to interrupt. You are allowed to be together in the quiet and share the moment.

Not even your dreams disrupt you, not horribly so anyway. They bother you but not in a way that leaves you screaming or even in the way that wakes Steve.

No, your dreams are quiet yet they are filled with transformation.


End file.
